


there's no salvation for me now

by theviolonist



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-31
Updated: 2012-05-31
Packaged: 2017-11-06 10:13:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/417684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theviolonist/pseuds/theviolonist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He thinks maybe it's sunday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there's no salvation for me now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [baratheons on LJ](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=baratheons+on+LJ).



> i just churn these out, don't i? less creepy than the other ones, so at least there's that. title from florence + the machine's wonderful, wonderful song lover to lover. i don't know, this one is just me indulging myself, i guess.

He thinks maybe it's sunday.

 

He's not a hundred percent sure, but it's okay, he doesn't really want to be sure anyway. He's good with this day being what it is, sunday or saturday or maybe even the outlandish thursday.

 

The sun is hitting the curtains, pushing fire behind them. Louis is glad they chose these curtains – him and Harry, laughing, trying out mattresses, jumping up and down on a four-poster in IKEA -; admittedly he's a bit afraid of the burning sunlight and its temptress dresses and how it might try to steal Harry away from him.

 

It rained yesterday. They were watching the drops course through the condensation on the window, shoulder to shoulder, wondering which one would make it to the frame first and slink back down on the ground, like spermatozoon racing to get to the ovary first.

 

But today there's nothing left of it except a pregnant smell in the air, a smell of damp leaves and curls and tentative sunlight. Louis presses Harry against him, their legs entwined, not quite two but not quite one either. Maybe it's sunday, he thinks distantly as their fingers tangle and their lips meet, soft, soft, rough. Harry can never decide if he's soft and sweet or rough and forceful, childish or mature, charming or seducing, pretty or attractive. He's always in-between.

 

It's the reason kissing Harry is always so interesting. Of course, there's the thrill of it being  _Harry_ , the heady rush or arousal, there are all the other things, the closeness and the affection and the sun on their backs, but kissing Harry is always an experience.

 

He doesn't remember how they got to this. Of course, they were always close, always touching, but Harry is like that with everyone, hands all over, charming and witty and  _physical._ It's just that Louis didn't mind, let himself be touched and always responded, playful little kicks and jabs and hugs. Then there was the whole Larry Stylinson thing, and they laughed at it, smiled when their manager said it was good for business, and 'keep doing what you're doing, guys'. It didn't hurt anyone, so they did.

 

The thing is, if he were someone else, hell, everyone else except Harry and maybe Zayn because he's so aloof about everything, he would probably remember the day it first happened. He'd remember if it was a sunday, how Harry's lips felt under his, chapped or soft or sugary or minty or  _red_ , who kissed first.

 

But he's not everyone else. He doesn't remember who kissed first, remembers about none of it, not the day and not the weather and not even which particular shade or pink or red were Harry's lips (but he notices – he just forgets). He doesn't regret the memory. It was good while it lasted. He feels like it went away to allow new ones to flow in and settle in its still-hot bed, purring.

 

It probably just  _happened_ , anyway. Things tend to happen like that with them – they do things because they feel right at the time, they don't really think about it twice. Louis can imagine them just falling into it, seamlessly, looking at each other through drooping eyelids and smile and  _do_ it, just because. (He can imagine them fit, too, fit right against each other like parts of a puzzle, molded by the hugs and the countless hours spent in each other's arms.)

 

Harry kisses like it's a game. It probably is, for him – everything is a game for him. Sometimes it hurts and stings and sticks and sometimes it doesn't. Today it doesn't. It's a good day, Louis thinks as Harry kisses his eyelids, one after the other, really soft, his tickling breath making Louis giggle and squirm. He can feel Harry smile against his cheek, mischievious and tender, Harry in a nutshell.

 

Louis wonders if he could describe Harry with three words. Probably not. He tries to think up three for himself.  _Loud, cheerful, bright_. How about these? Harry distracts him from his thought by kissing the hollow of his throat. He nips and presses open-mouthed kisses alternatively; Harry usually loves leaving marks, branding people, but he seems not to be in the mood today. Louis is a bit grateful – he's been drifting into this sort or half-conciousness he likes, drowsy and peaceful, and he knows Harry's teeth on his skin would undoubtedly jerk him back into attention, like it always does.

 

Harry hums low in his throat – it sends shivers down Louis's spine, and he thinks, 'at least all the vocal training won't have been for nothing' as he slips a hand into Harry's hair. He uses it as leverage to haul Harry up, and they laugh and fumble and kiss, quick and teasing, little pecks that feel like drizzle.

 

They have done more, bouts of lovemaking interrumpted by giggles and sweet nothings, teasings remarks whispered in each other's ears, but today doesn't feel like a day to do  _more_ , just a day to do, sit back and enjoy the show. Louis takes in Harry's face, every trait, every crease, every laugh line, until he's sure he could draw it by heart if he were to close his eyes. Harry blushes, and it makes him laugh – Harry's everything butshy.

 

"Stop it," Harry half-groans, and he bends down to kiss the spot under his ear, where he knows his kisses make Louis's heartbeat flutter and his hands fly to Harry's hair.

 

Louis just laughs, and closes his eyes when he feels Harry's lips on his skin. It feels like home, now. Louis was a bit surprised at how it had taken no time at all for him to get used to that, the _intimacy_ instead of the closeness, the real, open-mouthed kisses instead of the teasing little pecks.

 

"I love you," he says. It flies out of his mouth like a bird suddenly liberated from its cage, tiny wings fluttering madly, directionless.

 

He wants to clamp his hand over his mouth, just because he didn't intend to say it like that, breathy and intense and  _true_. He doesn't like being vulnerable.

 

Harry laughs against his lips, and everything is okay again. His hands are hot and gentle against Louis's jaw. A midnight wave crashes against Louis's heart and surges in his throat, full of all the words he wants to say.

 

"I love you too," Harry answers, pupils shining, and then he repeats it with his tongue, hot and lazy and familiar, as though they had all the time in the world ( _maybe they do_ , Louis thinks).

 

Louis wants the world to be a week-end that never ends. He never wants to move past this sunday, this saturday, this thursday, whatever it is, his head deep in the pillows and his hand on Harry's waist, stroking the bare skin where his shirt has ridden up a bit, his blood singing,  _mine, mine, mine_  (and, lower,  _his_ ).

 

He thinks about his mother, and because it's a good day and the sun outside seems to want to bless them, he lets himself think that she would be happy for him, would smile and sing-song, "Cheers" quietly, be as proud of him for loving as she's always been for everything he's done.

 

He thinks about the sadness and the fear of losing, losing this, losing Harry, losing the music and the lads and eveything they have, because now that he's here he knows it takes nothing at all to fall. He thinks about Harry, who isn't always like he is today, who is reckless and charming and flirts like he breathes. He thinks about the needles in his skin each time Harry smiles at someone that isn't him.

 

But Harry is propped on his elbows and he is kissing him like he doesn't want to think, like  _this_ , Louis's mouth hot against his, is the only thing he wants to feel right now, his eyes closed, his long lashes inking a shadow against his cheek.

 

Louis thinks,  _please, make it last_  and  _thank you_ and  _harry_.

 

He laughs against Harry's mouth, and Harry laughs with him. He gets the elation and the absurdity and the sheer  _joy_ of being here and being who they are today, together. Louis didn't he'd ever meet someone who got him so easily – someone he didn't have to talk to understand. But he looks into Harry's eyes, green and mischievious, and –

 

"Stop thinking," Harry mumbles, lazily kissing the sun off of Louis's lips, his eyes slivers of pure green.

 

Louis complies.  


End file.
